A Luna Blued

The romance of L.A. eludes me.  But I didn’t come here for the vibe.  Still… I’ve gotten used to the Tamarind sodas on York and even Olvera has an OK side.  And the air in October, when a Santa Ana blows, holds light like it’s in somebody’s eyes.   But don’t go thinking you know me.

To you I’m the leather faced hard ass, the old woman behind Domingos bar, the bitch who hates having to serve you…  and the mother who’s spent fourteen years trying to get her stolen kid back… yeah, that too.

So when that Porter chick comes in talking camarones to my guy like a liar’s foreplay,  I could  give a rat’s ass if she thinks the A La Diabla oozes heat, where I come from it can save the day…. for any mojada slipping across the border.

But I shut up and stay away – that woman is up to no good.   And whenever I can, I slip down the boulevard, west, into the angel-ed air of the Hills of Hollywood.   And hope one of them helps my child get away for a minute or two but what’s the likelihood?  Still, I wait at the bus bench halfway up the hill in case she could.

I won’t tell you what I’ve done, I won’t tell you what I do but I’ll tell you, you might do it too… given the circumstance.  So laugh at my snarl, wonder why I’m socially employed but don’t go asking me to dance.  You don’t want to know me.

Myrna.